


Exhale

by WriterGirl128



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alpha Scott, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Control, Epic Bromance, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post-Monsterous, Sleepy Skittles, all of the angst, mentions of Allison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterGirl128/pseuds/WriterGirl128
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something dark was brewing inside of Scott. He knew it. He feared it.  But he didn’t tell Stiles.  Why the hell wasn’t he telling Stiles?</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where Scott's losing control, and can't hide it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings - it's not super graphic, but it does mention blood and violence and all that, and I'd feel really, really, really bad (like super bad) if someone was triggered by it or anything like that because that is the absolute last thing I want to do. Also I guess I just have a thing for late night comforting. Sorry.

_Get_ _Stiles_.

He hadn’t thought twice about it. It was such an immediate, automatic decision that it was practically an instinct.

_Get Stiles._

Because something was wrong with him, he knew—and he needed his best friend. That day in the school, something was happening to him, and he was scared, and he was stressed, and he was losing control, and his automatic reaction was to _get Stiles_.

That same night, after they’d gotten the cure, when the vault door had finally opened, Scott thought about telling him. Telling him how no, he wasn’t just being forced to shift, forced out of control. It was more than that. It was darker than that. It was more animal than that.

But he didn’t.

Then the dreams happened. He knew they were dreams, sure—but they had felt so real. And each one was worse than the last. Watching his Beta being murdered over and over again. The blood. Liam’s blood, on his hands—on his face, like some sick splatter painting. Eyes burning scarlet, too many fangs filling his mouth, taken over by an animalistic _pleasure_ at what he was doing. He felt strong—he felt powerful.

When he screamed himself awake, he thought about telling Stiles. His stomach churned, and his heart was racing, and he was terrified of himself—of what he was becoming. He saw Liam come into the room, and the scene played in his head like a video on repeat, the blood, the tomahawk, the utterly betrayed look in his eyes. A look he caused.

He didn’t tell Stiles.

Why didn’t he tell Stiles?

Then it was the bonfire. The minute Mason got the music off, Scott felt it—that animalistic pull, that anger that had been building in his chest because this man was _threatening his pack_ , and he felt powerful when he grabbed his hand, feeling the bones crack like twigs under his fingers, twisting his wrist, and he felt so _strong_ —

He was twenty different levels of grateful when Derek and Braedon showed up. The thought of what he might’ve done if they hadn’t? It pretty much terrified him. Because something dark was brewing inside of him. He knew it. He feared it.

He didn’t tell Stiles.

_Why the hell wasn’t he telling Stiles?_

Then the fight in the warehouse happened. It was chaos—there were guns, and claws, and bullets and fangs everywhere, and there were these people attacking them, shooting at them, trying to kill them. And it happened again—that pull of rage, the twisted pleasure he felt in protecting and defending and attacking, that surge of strength he felt as he overpowered another—

But he was hurting people. He was _hurting people_. Nearly killing—and that…that wasn’t him. _That wasn’t him_. He repeated it in his head, a mantra—he didn’t do that. He was supposed to be helping people. He was supposed to be _saving_ people. Not killing them—even if they were trying to kill him first. _That wasn’t him_.

He could feel his face change back, softening into his normal features—but he hadn’t felt it begin to change in the first place. He’d been too distracted by this wild animal inside him that seems to be getting wilder each and every day. But he knew what had happened—he’d seen it before. On Peter. On Deucalion.

It scared him so much, he didn’t want to tell Stiles. He didn’t want to see the way Stiles would look at him, if he knew what was happening to him. Because there’d be pity in his eyes, and probably a little fear, too—even Scott was afraid of Scott. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle it if Stiles was afraid of him. At this point, Scott didn’t want him to know. He was too ashamed, too guilt-ridden. He was a monster. He didn’t want to tell Stiles.

But he did. Because that’s what every bone in his body was aching to do. It was like he’d been holding his breath the whole time, praying it would pass. But he couldn’t hold his breath anymore. It wasn’t passing—in fact, if anything, it was getting worse. And every fiber of his being, every part of him that had been fighting so hard against breathing suddenly exhaled, and the words _get Stiles_ ran through his mind on repeat.

That’s why at 1:38, the night after the warehouse fight, Scott called Stiles. He hadn’t slept. He’d been lying in bed for hours, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was that assassin’s face, coughing up blood, pure terror in his eyes. Terror he’d caused. And it wasn’t a dream, that time.

Stiles had answered on the fifth ring. “Scott?” he’d mumbled, obviously still half asleep. “Wha’ssup?”

Scott tried to swallow the lump in his throat, staring at the dark wall straight ahead of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He wet his lips, trying again. But the room stayed silent.

“Scott?” Stiles asked, more awake now. Concern laced his voice even through the phone.  “Are you okay?”

Scott swallowed again, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go down. He shook his head a little. “No,” he got out, but the word was quiet. It surprised him how broken, how hopeless his voice sounded. He opened his mouth to try again, but still, the room was silent.

There was a soft sound from the other line—padding, like bare feet across a wooden floor. “Okay, Scotty,” Stiles said, and for some reason, the gentleness in his voice made guilt sit in Scott’s stomach like a lead weight. “It’s okay. I’ll be there in five. Don’t go anywhere.”

Still unable to speak, Scott nodded to the empty room.

It felt like hours before he heard the Jeep approaching—and the whole time, he sat there, on his bed, staring across at a dark wall he couldn’t really see. And that’s how Stiles found him—sitting alone in a dark room, lost in his own fear.

He’d knocked on the door lightly, before pushing it open—it was more of a warning than a question for permission. He knew Scott wouldn’t have answered either way. “Scott?” He flicked the lights on as he came in, concern etched deep into his expression. When he saw Scott, his eyes turned sad. He took a seat next to him on the edge of the bed, shoulders pressed together. “You’re crying,” he observed gently, before reaching up and lightly wiping one of Scott’s cheeks dry.

Scott, who hadn’t realized he’d been crying, wiped at his other cheek, surprised at how wet it was. He took in a breath, letting it out slowly, trying to get his voice to work again. “Yeah.”

Stiles looked at him in a way that made the lead weight in his stomach seem even heavier. It was just so open, and caring, and sad, and he didn’t _deserve_ that kind of look, he wasn’t good enough for a look like that. Not after everything he’s almost done—after everything he’s wanted to do. It was the kind of look that only the best people deserve—that kind of worried look that he just wasn’t _good_ enough for anymore. He didn’t deserve it.

Stiles still kept his voice gentle. “Why are you crying?”

Scott tried to swallow the lump in his throat again, and this time it worked—only swallowing it made his eyes sting even more. He wiped at them quickly, drying them. He shouldn’t be crying. He has no right to be crying. “I—” he started, but his voice hitched, and he settled for shaking his head.

Stiles gave him a minute, as if waiting to see if Scott was going to try and speak again. When he didn’t, he nudged Scott with his elbow. “Talk to me, Scotty. Let me help you.”

 _Let me help you._ That’s what the Mute had said to him. When Scott killed Liam.

Scott took in a shuddering breath, hands tightening around the blankets beneath him. He blinked the stinging in his eyes back. “There’s something—” he started shakily, keeping his eyes down. “There’s s-something wrong. With me.”

Stiles frowned at that, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you mean?”

“I—” he broke off again, swallowing. “I don’t know. Something’s happening to me, a-and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Fix what, though, Scott? What’s going on?”

Scott felt himself pale—it was just a sinking feeling, like his entire body just dropped. “It’s like I—” His voice faltered. “It’s like I’m more…more wolf, I guess.” He swallowed. “More animal than human. I-it’s harder to control, and I’m angrier, a-and I’m shifting more than I should be…”

Scott risked a glance up at Stiles, who still had that worry in his gaze that Scott in no way deserved. He lowered his eyes again, locked on his fingers. “When did it start?” Stiles asked, and the concern in his voice literally made Scott want to sink into the floor.

He winced a little. “Around the quarantine.”

From the corner of his eye, Scott saw the frown on Stiles’ face deepen. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Scott shrugged a little, ashamed of himself. He kept his gaze low, though he felt heat rise to his face. “I was hoping—I was hoping it would pass. That maybe it was just some—some power glitch. Because of Satomi and her pack.”

Stiles thought for a second, and Scott looked up again. After a minute, Stiles nodded. “That makes sense. Rival packs, another Alpha—wolves are super territorial. It could fit,” he shrugged. But, after one look from Scott, the detective look faded from his eyes, and he was the concerned friend again. “Something tells me it isn’t passing, though,” he continued, his voice softer. “Is it?”

Scott shook his head, looking down again. “It’s getting worse.” He picked at one of his nails, needing something to do to keep his hands from shaking.

Stiles kind of just watched him for a second, but they both stayed silent. Scott wouldn’t look up. “How bad are we talking about, here?” Stiles asked after a long stretch of time. “Like, first full moon, wanting to attack people bad?”

Scott couldn’t help but wince, something tightening in his chest. “Maybe worse,” he admitted, and his voice sounded small, even to himself. He shook his head. “It’s like I’m—I’m fine one minute, and the next I want to…”

Stiles nodded, not needing him to finish. But Scott kept talking, finding his voice—and the words spilled out of him, his voice shaking.

“I almost - I almost _killed_ someone tonight, Stiles,” he started. “A-and it—it terrifies me, because I don’t want to hurt people. I never want to hurt people, but then it’s like—it’s like that goes away so fast and I can’t stop it, a-and suddenly I’m there, and I’m _hurting people_ and I’m _enjoying_ it, and it’s horrible, and it’s wrong, and I know that, Stiles, I do—I just can’t _do_ anything about it, and it’s so hard to pull back sometimes, and I’m so scared because I don’t want to—I don’t want to…”

Somewhere there, while Scott was talking, Stiles had put his arm around the back of Scott’s shoulders. “Hey,” he said gently, squeezing his shoulders. “It’s okay. We can figure this out. It’s gonna be okay.”

Scott looked up at Stiles, this time aware of the tears on his cheeks. He shook his head a little, not even trying to hide the scared desperation he felt. “Stiles, I…” he trailed off, swallowing, and shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to turn into Peter.”

Stiles reached up, wiping at Scott’s cheeks again. “You won’t. You’re not going to turn into Peter.”

Scott shook his head, dropping his gaze again. "Stiles, I... I think I already am.” He frowned down at his fingers and thought about, though not for the first time, how terrifying it really was that in an instant, his short, bed-bitten nails could extend into long, strong, razor sharp claws. Claws that could rip someone's throat out as easily as slicing thorugh tissue paper. “I’m…I’m changing more,” he continued clenching his hand into fists. “More than I should be able to. Like—like Peter did. It’s like I’m…less human, now. More monster.”

“Hey,” Stiles immediately chided him, but his voice stayed quiet. “Stop that. You, Scott McCall, are the least monstery monster there is, okay? You’re never going to turn into Peter. You don’t have a bad bone in your body, Scott—Peter’s all bad bones.  Except for one that’s literally only good when there’s a hidden agenda involved and he benefits from it. You are nothing like him.”

Scott shook his head. “Deucalion wasn’t, either,” he returned, frowning deeper. “He was actually pretty decent, at one point.”

“Deucalion only went nuts because Gerard blinded him and he had an idiotic Beta with a death wish.” He squeezed Scott’s shoulder again. “Not all Alphas go crazy with power, Scott. You’re going to be fine. Okay, maybe we don’t know what’s going on with you yet, but that doesn’t mean you’re turning into Peter. We’ll figure it out.”

Scott wiped at his eyes again. He didn’t trust his voice not to quiver, so he just nodded a little.

“Hey,” Stiles said, nudging his arm. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I know it’s been a while, but my offer still stands about the feeding you live mice, thing. If that’s what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Scott shook his head, not believing how quickly Stiles shifts gears. He made an apologetic face, finally looking up. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Stiles waved him off. “Shush. It’s fine. I’m actually kind of pissed at you for not waking me up sooner.  You shouldn’t feel like you have to wait until your about to break down to tell me about these things, Scotty.”

Scott tried to shrink down into the bed again. “I was…it scares me,” he said, and his voice was small again. “A lot.”

"And truth be told, I'm kind of glad it does," Stiles admitted, nodding. "Think about it. Was Peter afraid of it? Was Deucalion?" He shook his head. "No," he answered, before Scott had the chance to. "No, they weren't scared of it. They embraced it, Scott. As far as I'm concerned, the more scared of it you are, the more human you are. The day you're not scared of it is the day we should be worried."

Scott bit his lip, and after a minute, he nodded a little. He had a point. It took a little bit of the ache out of his chest.

Stiles clapped a hand onto his shoulder. "Dude, you're not a monster unless you choose to be. Humans can be monsters—monsters can be humane. It has nothing to do with what species you are. It's a choice."

Scott exhaled, letting out a breath filled with tension. He focused on his breathing, on getting the weight off his chest. Every time he took a breath, and let it out, he found it a little easier to take the next.

"Yeah," he said after a while, and nodded. Stiles' words circled in his head. "You're right."

Stiles smiled. "I usually am."

Still, something heavy sat in his stomach. “But, Stiles,” he started slowly, “sometimes I—” he broke off, swallowing. He tried again. “When it’s happening, I don’t—I’m not scared of it. It’s sick, and it’s wrong, and I _know_ that, but when it’s happening…” he trailed off.

“You like it,” Stiles finished softly. Scott dropped his gaze again. “You like feeling stronger, more powerful. Like nothing can touch you. Right?”  Stomach clenching, Scott nodded, still keeping his gaze low. Stiles squeezed his shoulder, his voice sympathetic. “I get it. After everything with the nogitsune, I get it. But you know that’s not you, Scott. You aren’t a bad person.”

“I just…” Scott trailed off, sighing. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m all that good, either, anymore.”

Stiles shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Stop that, dude, before I hit you.”

“Stiles, I—”

“No. Listen to me, Scotty. You are a good person. You care about everyone, and you go out of your way to help people, and you’re annoyingly optimistic about _everything,_ and you are going to be okay. Whatever’s going on with you?” He squeezed Scott’s shoulder again. “It’ll be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Scott let out a shaky breath. “What if I—” he broke off, his voice quivering. “What if I’m not? What if I can’t control it?”

Stiles pulled him closer, into a one armed hug. “Then I’ll lock you up and line the room with mountain ash until you can. You’re my best friend, Scott. You’re not a monster. And I’m not about to let you become one. There’s always hope, right?”

The last sentence was said with such a tenderness that it both warmed something in Scott and hurt at the same time. Memories floated to the front of his mind—memories of a motel, and a road flare, and a love so strong, so deep, so _human_ that suddenly he felt very real. Solid. Like the ground beneath him wasn’t quaking, like his world was steady, like his sky wasn’t crashing in around him. It was love, and it was friendship, it was pack, it was home, it was _family._

It was Stiles. It was Lydia. It was Allison.

And he held onto those words. Allison’s words—Stiles’ words. He didn’t want to let them go. He wanted to lock them in a box, frozen in time, and _keep them._ He wanted to carry them around with him, wherever he went. For the rest of his life, he wanted to carry the words. Slowly, he let out a breath, and with it, he exhaled doubt and guilt and shame and fear. Stiles was there. Stiles was there, and he wasn’t a monster, and Stiles was there, and there was hope, and he wasn’t a monster, and everything was going to be okay.

Slowly, Scott nodded. _Get Stiles_ , his instincts had told him. This was why. It was such an automatic response— _get Stiles._ Because Stiles could always hold him together, when it felt like he was bursting at the seams. It’s just what Stiles _did._ It’s what he would always do.

He squeezed Scott’s shoulders, before pulling him to his feet and embracing him with both arms, now. It was a familiar hug, comforting, and Scott was so grateful for it he was speechless. The last time Stiles had hugged him like that, it was him that was losing it, losing control—that day in the hospital. Now the roles were reversed, and Scott was the one being comforted, and it was almost as if he didn’t realize how much he needed it until then.

“Thanks, Stiles,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

Stiles grip on him tightened a little, before he pulled away. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Scott nodded, sniffling a little. “I really am sorry about waking you up.”

Stiles whacked him in the head.

“Ow,” Scott whimpered, rubbing the spot he’d hit.

“I warned you,” Stiles reminded him. He turned, then, patting the bed near the pillows. “Now. You should get some sleep.”

But Scott felt uneasy at the idea. “I’m not sure I can.”

Stiles pulled the covers down anyways, ignoring Scott’s comment. “Here.” He made a grand gesture with his hands, like the motion might get Scott to move. When he didn’t, Stiles sighed. “Come on, buddy. Try, at least. For me.”

Scott bit his lip. Fear coiled in his stomach at idea of sleeping, afraid of what nightmares his mind might cook up. But Stiles was looking at him with that look, that concerned, caring, worried look, and Scott found himself climbing into the bed.

“There we go,” Stiles approved, as Scott pulled the covers up, curling on his side. Stiles smiled a little, squeezing his shoulder. “Night, Scotty.”

Scott felt a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Then he let his eyes close, and within seconds, his room was dark again. He wasn’t expecting, however, the shift in bed as Stiles got in on the other side.

Scott turned to him, eyebrows drawing together. “You’re staying?”

Even in the dark, Scott could see Stiles roll his eyes. “Well, yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “What kind of best friend would I be if I just left you alone after everything we just talked about?” Then he snorted, like it was a ridiculous impossibility. “Not gonna happen. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

The ghost of a smile on Scott’s face grew into a real one. “Pretty sure I’d crash and burn if I ever got rid of you, dude.”

“Damn straight, you would,” Stiles replied, and Scott knew he was grinning. “Now if you go to sleep in the next five minutes I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.”

Scott narrowed his eyes, but his heart didn’t feel as heavy as it had. “Are you bribing me with food?”

Stiles sighed, exasperated. “Not just _food,_ Scott—Stilinski Pancakes. The king of all foods. And don’t pretend like it’s not working.”

Now Scott laughed a little, shaking his head. Stiles’ pancakes _were_ pretty good. “Okay, okay,” he finally said, closing his eyes. “G’night, Stiles.”

“Night, Scotty.”

It was silent for a while, and Scott felt the weight of sleep cover him like a quilt. Somehow, knowing Stiles was right next to him made him not as afraid. He was almost at ease. They’d figure out whatever was wrong with him. Stiles would help him—like Stiles always did.

“Thank you,” Scott said into the silence, already drifting off to sleep.

But Stiles wasn’t asleep, yet, like Scott thought. “That doesn’t sound like sleeping to me.”

Scott shook his head. “Seriously, Stiles. Thank you.”

Stiles nudged him in the arm with his elbow. “You’re welcome,” he replied. “Now shut up and go to sleep before I hit you again.”

“I just—”

“Shhh, Scott. Sleep.”

“Stiles—”

“Shhh.”

“ _Stiles_ —”

“ _Scott._ ”

“Let me—”

“No.”

“I just—”

Stiles whacked him in the arm.

Scott had no nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of my response to the whole "My baby Scott is spiraling out of control yet none of the other characters seem to realize it" thing because I have way too many feelings about it and Scott needs someone to help him (and, you know. Skittles.) and it is far past my bedtime, so what else am I supposed to do? Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine! (And bear with me - like I said. Waaaaaay past my bedtime.) Let me know what you think!


End file.
